Crowley's Twelve Days of Falala-ing Christmas
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: Crowley is struck by a Christmas Spirit curse and forced to 'bring good cheer' to the bunker residents for the twelve days of Christmas. And he thought centuries of torture in Hell was bad. One-shot.


Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural and am making no money off this fanwork.

A/N: Written for SPN-BigPretzel's "Crowley's Christmas Fic Exchange" as a present to Amberdreams (Amber1960). The writer reveal was earlier this month, but I forgot to crosspost. So, let us travel back a month in time to the holidays. We'll call this "canon divergent" as it takes into account Crowley's time in the bunker, but the timeline is...what's the technical term? Wonky. Yeah. In other words, this was written to bring good cheer. And, no, this has nothing to do with the actual "twelve days of Christmas".

* * *

"CROWLEY'S TWELVE DAYS OF FALALA-ING CHRISTMAS"

* * *

The idiots are at it again. Crowley can't quite hear what's happening in the bunker, but he can hear the faint thundering of heavy running, by multiple runners, which rules out the possibility that Moose is simply attempting to burn off that last half ounce of fat. A cruel grin stretches across his face as he considers the possibilities. Perhaps something is attempting to eat the Winchesters. Usually, that thought might keep him in a good mood for hours, but he feels his cheer slipping slightly when he considers that the bunker might actually be under siege. Not necessarily a good thing, if their enemy is also his enemy.

"What's happening?" he snaps, then realizes he can't be heard. He rolls his eyes at himself, but then perks up when he hears a sound beyond the shelves hiding the torture chamber's entry. Was that...ringing bells?

The observation is the last one he has before a ball of bright golden light squeezes its way through the crack in the door, zooms past the wards, and hits him between the eyes.

* * *

"Crowley? Crowley, wake the hell up!"

"Dean, that curse..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, Sam, but come on, man, he's a demon. Surely it didn't, you know, 'take'."

"Well, it obviously did _something._"

Crowley's head lolls forward and the movement is enough to let him know that he's been...sleeping? Huh. He blinks, dazed. There's a faint tickling at his brow. And of course he can't scratch it. He tries to not let his frustration show as he pulls himself together.

"He's not dead. Too bad," someone comments.

It takes Crowley a few seconds longer to realize that voice belongs to Kevin...and that the chair he's chained to is currently surrounded by his three _favorite _humans. He scowls at them on principle. Then he realizes they're staring at him strangely.

His brow lowers in defeat. "What have you lot done now?" he asks.

Dean Winchester snickers into his hands. _Snickers._ The fool. Sam, of course, has the decency to look somewhat pitying as he glances from Crowley to a small fold of paper in his hands and back again.

"You were hit by some made-up curse an old white guy with too much love of Santa left in a box. And now you're glowing. Like a glow worm," Kevin deadpans. "So, yeah. Sucks to be you." Then he grins brightly.

The bastard. Crowley can't help but feel a faint stirring of pride before the boy's words sink in.

"Pardon?"

It's bollocks, the whole tale. Crowley is sure to let them all know how stupid they are for possibly believing one of their beloved Men of Letters would ever create something called a "Christmas Spirit" curse, just to force his bloody co-workers into celebrating the holidays. And, no, Crowley doesn't care one little bit that there was a message left inside the "gift box" the Hardy boys discovered, detailing dire consequences if the "recipient" did not "bring good cheer and joy" to at least one soul a day until Christmas.

For starters, magic simply doesn't work that way. One doesn't learn magic just to come up with a curse, of all things, intended to force warm fuzzy feelings upon threat of death...Well, perhaps, he amends. But the spellwork itself would be far too complicated for such a simple task.

Explaining magic to hunters is like explaining...Well, magic to hunters. Crowley is too frustrated to continue his tirade.

"A bit of good cheer, you say?" he asks, before maneuvering one finger in an upright position for all the room to see. "How about a holiday wish instead?"

He begins vomiting eggnog about an hour before midnight, as best he can guess from his location. By the time the Winchesters hear him and come running, he's mentally congratulating the curse's creator on being a particularly twisted sadist. The eggnog is virgin. Props.

Between heaves, he glances up to see Moose and Squirrel staring at the room with a look of disgust of their faces and hears one of them mention hosing the place down before it spoils. Crowley growls at himself, grimacing as he catches Dean's eye.

"Dean Winchester," he bites, swallowing back down a mouthful of the milky drink, "you are a fine hunter, and one of my greatest foes. Merry Christmas."

Dean blinks rapidly, confused. "Uh? Okay then?"

Crowley feels the twisting in his stomach reside and takes a deep, cautious breath, but if there's eggnog inside him, it's staying put.

Sam huffs out a laugh, elbowing his brother. "The curse. The curse _works_."

Dean smiles slowly. "Well, this is going to be fun."

"I hate you," Crowley wants to say. He doesn't. The moment the words begin to form, he coughs up a snow ball. "How long until Christmas?" he asks, instead.

Sam shakes his head in amusement. "Twelve days."

Bollocks.

* * *

Crowley attempts to worm his way out of the "good" part of his cheer-giving and fails on day two. Apparently saying, "I do hope the two of you visit _me_ for the holidays next year," did not appease the curse. His nose was still itching from sneezing tinsel.

However, for the next few days, he found that a few forced compliments left him safe for a twenty-four hour period. ("Why, I've always thought the Winchesters should have their own line of jeans. You two do wear your denim so well." "Kevin, you are absolutely the most intelligent boy I've ever had the pleasure of kidnapping and torturing.") By day six, he thinks the rest of the holiday will be a breeze. He didn't kiss Lilith's scrawny backside for decades without learning to perfect the left-handed compliment...and lie out his ass. But, of course, the madman who created the curse must have made it adaptive.

Centuries of Hell were bad. Cooking sugar cookies while shackled is worse. When Sam hands him an apron, he begins to see what Lucifer saw in the boy.

And if even the remotest thought of poison or escape enters his head, his insides begin to twist and turn as if they've been thrown into a blender.

Crowley grumbles to himself, rolling out the dough and letting Dean pick out the next cookie cutter. An angel. Crowley raises a brow at the choice. Truthfully, though, this is nice, stretching his legs, even if he can't take full advantage of his temporary freedom. And the scent of cookies in the air is admittedly pleasing.

If word of this leaves the bunker, he is, of course, ruined.

"Sprinkles?" Dean asks, pouting.

"Fine," Crowley grouses. This stomach churns. "Sprinkles it is."

* * *

Nothing is working on Christmas Eve. He tries compliments and stringing popcorn and even attempts to give Sam a shoulder massage (the jolly green giant dodges him, unfortunately), but he can feel the curse at work still. He knows what it wants. It wants him to give them a present and not one that can be bought in a shopping mall. A real present, one of value. One that requires sacrifice on his part. He isn't sure how he knows the curse won't be fooled by his facade today, but he does.

He tells the lot he wants to give them something for Christmas. He begins with a roll of his eyes, because he knows he should get that out of the way before he's punched in the face. Possibly repeatedly.

"Kevin," he says, "I lied to you. Your mother is alive."

The curse doesn't seem to mind the lack of wrapping paper involved.

* * *

All through the bunker, not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse...

Shackled to his chair once more, Crowley doesn't have a means for checking the time, but he's certain it's late Christmas evening when the group finally returns. He hasn't seen the lot of them since yesterday, when they ran with his grand reveal, and he doesn't see Kevin or Linda, just the two pain in the ass hunters when the dungeon's doors open.

They come in quietly, subdued, and communicating silently through glances.

"We found her where you said we would. And the girl was in the other storage unit." Dean lifts his chin slightly. "Mrs. Tran is okay, or she will be. Had to gank the guard, though."

"On principle," Crowley says, in agreement. "Well, it seems my gift of knowledge was enough to break the curse, so all's well that ends well. But perhaps I should test the waters, just to be sure...May you all die bloody, you worthless sacks of skin and self-righteousness." He pauses for effect, then smirks. "Now that's better."

"Back to normal then." Dean gives Crowley a curt nod. "Congratulations on not crapping mistletoe, you dick. And don't worry about forgetting this Christmas, we made pictures of you in that apron. Holiday memories and all."

"I would expect no less," Crowley hisses. "Now, why don't you shuffle off and work out some of those Mummy issues with Linda Tran."

"We'll save you some eggnog," Dean returns.

Sam shakes his head, biting down a smile. It almost looks genuine. "Merry Christmas, Crowley."

"Ba-humbug, Moose."


End file.
